


i hate you and i love you the most

by gingerfrost



Category: Portal (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 07:44:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4011511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerfrost/pseuds/gingerfrost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's her newest plan to make your life a living hell, somehow, she swears it up and down. Being a fake human, that is. You're not sure how the sex fits into her grandiose plans just yet. Maybe just another test.</p><p>(Brief, ancient Chell and GLaDOS drabble. Navigating humanized-robot-GLaDOS, sex and, worse, feelings.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	i hate you and i love you the most

_Making love_ was never an option with her.

Granted, _having sex_ hadn't been at the top of either of your agendas, either. You know because she read to you all the things she still needed to do, down to every last "filter CO2 from air" and "blink optic to clean the dust off of it" minutia.

And yet, with her poured into a faux-human shell, you find yourselves trying it anyway. It's her newest plan to make your life a living hell, somehow, she swears it up and down. Being a fake human, that is. You're not sure how the sex fits into her grandiose plans just yet. Maybe just another test.

She spreads you out like blueprints, reading kinetically your hips, your breasts with palms and fingertips. Her kisses are incisions, neat, strategic application of lips to lips, neck, shoulders.

"I'd like to remind you of all the diseases humans can catch doing this. There's some really interesting ones, did you know? 'Cytomegalovirus', that's an intimidating word. Oh, but don't worry. _I'll_ be fine. I'm a robot, after all," she says. It's almost conversational at this point, her little nasty jibes and morbid factoids. You're used to it.

It's sometime between dressed and undressed that you realize she has no idea what she's doing. Hesitance is not a look she wears well: its seams don't line up with her, and her hands that were whipquick just before stall and judder, before she takes off your tank top like a bandaid. _Do it quick so it won't hurt as much._ She bats away your attempts to get at her clothes, snarling: "You'll only wrinkle it with those sausages you call fingers. I'm already resigned to a chemical shower to get off all the grease stains I know you're going to be leaving. I might have to resort to radiation if I'm desperate." You back off, let her find the zipper of her second-skin jumpsuit herself. It peels off and pools around her, chrysalislike.

There she is, naked and human. She is looking fixedly at a point just beyond you, arms mechanically folding her suit into a tight square. You're hard-pressed to find anything wrong with her, a single blemish. She notices your eyes: "I'll tell you a secret right now: I'm prettier. It's nothing personal, it's just a fact." She leans in, confidentially. "We don't design people to not be perfect."

Whatever person-printer she used didn't account for one simple fact: humans aren't very good at perfect, even ones spun out of polymers. In this moment, she is more Caroline mark two than she could ever be in her expanse of metal sheeting and wires. You let yourself ache, for just a second, for the woman-that-was and the woman-that-is, who is prickly and horrible and your anathema. But, it dawns on you, this is not the capital She, goddess of empiricism and cynicism, the alpha-to-omega of bleach-white walls and lonely laboratories. She is a she, small and vulnerable. The accident of science and circumstance.

She is so person it hurts.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from _Murder of Birds_ by Jesca Hoop.


End file.
